I Miss My Parents (but not enough to keep all their photos)

I miss my parents.

I can imagine you now, reading this and thinking, “Well, duh, of course you do, that’s obvious. All you do is talk about death and grief. We know. Isn’t it about time you shut up about it?”
Maybe but it’s not as simple as that. Missing people is only a small part of grief. It is, actually, the nice part. It isn’t something you do all the time and occasionally it catches you when you’re not looking. I remember a colleague telling me that she hardly thought about her mum after she died and then one day her son got an amazing job and it was only when she picked up the phone to tell her that she realised how much she missed her.

The process of death admin is coming to a close. Who knew it could all take this long? There are just a few final accounts to check and then we have an inheritance that makes us feel too many things. We are grateful and proud that they were able to do this for us, and regretful that they weren’t able to live for longer and spend all their money. “Spending your inheritance,” was one of my Dad’s favourite things to say, particularly when he went on holiday. “Spend away,” I’d reply.

I am also trying to sort through their photos.

I like photos. I like the stories they tell. I have been sharing them with people and their replies have been full of happy stories. My parents were nice people and people remember them fondly. Their photos show that they were bloody brilliant at holidays. Mum’s photos are better than Dad’s and so photos of her are often blurred or of only half her face. He is always centre frame, beaming in the limelight. Mum was happy with her blurred hidden image. She was just as brilliant; just as much fun to be around; just as entertaining. She was, however, uncomfortable being noticed. That, an the knobbly knees are the only things I think I inherited from her (although I can take a photo).

I am missing my Dad at the moment because he would have been very happy to deflect some of the limelight. He glowed at praise. It makes me want to run and hide. We started the Youth Orchestra together. It was his retirement project but we he always acknowledged my contribution without ever making me stand up and take praise. When he became too sick to conduct I, reluctantly took over. I knew it would come with a notoriety that would be tricky. Shortly after, I was given an award and he came with me to collect it, doing all the smiling, hand shaking and taking praise that was necessary. Now, I’ve been nominated for another award and he’s not there to deflect for me. 

I know that I have to be grown up and gracious about it but this one, particularly at a time when I’ve, in my own words, “been a bit shit,” has made me want to run and hide even more. My WBC (wonderfully bonkers committee) decided that it would be excellent publicity for the orchestra, particularly in our twentieth year and despite my attempts to hide have written about it.

I do miss my parents but not enough to keep all of their photos. I’m trying to be very Marie Kondo about it. I hold each one in my hands and ask myself if it sparks joy. Surprisingly, even beautiful photographs of scenery that I’ve not seen myself does nothing for me.

The Long Suffering Husband keeps picking photos off the ‘to be discarded’ pile and asking who is in the picture. 

“Haven’t the faintest,” I reply, “It’s why it’s on that pile.”

Or, “someone Dad worked with. I think he was called Tiddler.”

There are some absolutely splendid photos of my Dad.

When I started to look (I’ve not been able to look before, so this is good) some great pictures of Mum, especially when she was young.

Mum’s baby sister cried all the time

But Mum loved her and the dog

There were also funny photos of family that I’ve not seen before.

Then there were photos that spoke to me but I wasn’t sure why.

“I’m keeping this one,” I told the LSH. “I haven’t a scooby who these people are but I think it’s a great photo. It reminds me of childhood parties.”

The LSH took the photo and said, “It is a childhood party.”

“I know but...”

“It’s you!” he interrupted and pointed to the small child at the head of the table, pulling a weird face.

“What? The ugly child? Oh my God, I’m the ugly child!”

Gosh, I miss my parents. They loved that ugly child.